The Lover Who Never Was
by Pink Lychee
Summary: After seeing Helga shivering in the cold by herself, Arnold invites her to his boarding house to warm up. Alone together in Arnold's room, isn't that the best place for Helga's confession? Arnold/Helga


**INFORMATION**

**Disclaimer:**_ Hey Arnold!_ is created by Craig Bartlett.

**Synopsis:** After seeing Helga shivering in the cold by herself, Arnold invites her to his boarding house to warm up. Alone together in Arnold's room, isn't that the best place for Helga's confession?

**Warnings:** This isn't a very happy story.

**Pairing:** Arnold/Helga

* * *

**The Lover Who Never Was**

* * *

It was rather late, too late and too cold for anyone to find comfort in walking through the empty park. Even so, the current circumstances did not stop Helga G. Pataki from wandering into now vacant city recreational area. She vigorously rubbed her palms on her arms in a futile attempt to find some sort of warmth. A tee-shirt and a pink dress was not a sufficient outfit for this particular weather.

_Why the hell did I come here anyways?_

She mentally cursed herself for the unwise decision. But she managed to find her way towards a lonely bench near one of the street lights and sat down. She could see miniature clouds forming from her lips as she breathed out, shaking from the cold.

_Why am I even here…?_

Helga bit her lower lip and tried to concentrate on the events that preceded her current state. Nothing. Usually, she would be embracing this quiet, loneliness welcomingly with both arms. It was far more idea than hearing the clanking of her mother's one-too-many drinks or the loud roars that came from her father when his football made one bad move. However, this type of loneliness was quite different. With chilly mist that hung low at her feet and little droplets of ice water that was condensing on her fine blond hair, the solitude was almost unbearable.

_Damn it all. If only you were here._

_ I just want to see your face, one last time. _

_Because…_

Then, the sound of shuffling feet on pavement made Helga turn her head over her shoulder. She did so, just to find that her eyes were gazing on the face she had least expected—but the face she wanted to see the most.

"Helga?" Arnold inquired in surprised. "Isn't it a little late to be out here by yourself?"

Helga swiftly got up on her feet and her eyebrows furrowed as usual.

"You can speak for yourself, Arnold-o," she spat.

"I just went to pick up something for my grandpa," the boy explained honestly as he held up a plastic shopping bag for her to see.

"That so," Helga resorted, trying to sound uninterested in him.

"Well," Arnold said. "What are you doing out here?"

For some reason, Helga was actually taken aback by his question.

"I don't know, Football-head," she said, truthfully. "It's none of your business anyways. It _is_ a free country."

"Sure," Arnold shrugged. "But aren't you cold?" He took a few steps towards her.

Helga clenched her teeth, willing her body to stand its ground. He came around the bench and stood before her.

_You're always too good to be true. _

_That perfect angel in my dreams. _

_How many goddamn times have I written your name? _

_It's the most overused name in my books._

"A little bit," Helga answered, surprising herself at how calm she was sounding even when her heart was skipping every other beat.

"Go home, Helga," Arnold told her. "You're going to catch a cold if you stay out here."

"Don't tell me what to do," she snapped at him, hands on her hips.

Arnold held up his hands in defense.

"I'm just saying," he said.

Helga saw the shock on his eyes, the fear that she might actually hit him. It was the same expression that he always gave her whenever she threatened him about the faintest thing. Somehow that look had become so common for him it almost seemed like a sort of reflex. She hated herself for letting her abusive behavior towards him get so far.

_If I ever told you "I'm sorry" would you even believe me? _

_Because if I ever did, I would mean it. _

_But I just don't know… if you could ever accept it._

"I don't want to go home," Helga managed to murmur under her breath.

A hint of worry flashed in Arnold's eyes. "How come? Did something happen?"

"No," Helga shrugged. "Who'd want to go home to an alcoholic mom who packs her kid shaving cream for lunch and a football obsessed dad who can't even remember his daughter's name?"

She didn't receive an answer; it wasn't like she had been expecting one. Yet, she found that the words flowing from her mouth were foreign, her voice, too, was unlike her own.

"You can come home to my place for a while," Arnold offered.

Helga's eyes widened slightly. Arnold, _her_ Arnold, was suggesting that she come to his house. What was this? A dream? One of her countless fantasies? It was unreal, but yet, she could feel the sting of the cold, the knot in her stomach, the pounding of her heart. She shook her head to wade away anymore thoughts.

"Alright, Football-head," Helga said.

To her satisfaction, a small, lopsided smile appeared on Arnold's lips when she accepted.

They walk to his infamous boarding house in silence, only the sounds of their feet and the rustling of Arnold's plastic bag filled the atmosphere. Fortunately, Hillwood City was rather lively during the night time. Occasionally there were loud, metallic bangs that erupted from the narrow allies, probably from various gang members having some evening time quarrels. Starving, homeless dogs barked and stray cats would meow at the moon like there was no tomorrow.

Before she knew it, Helga was already being ushered into Arnold's boarding house. She avoided the gazes from the boarders who lived there, "Arnold's family," as the boy had referred to them. Helga had to restrained herself from blowing up when Arnold's grandfather commented on her being "the Short Man's little friend with the one eyebrow." After those words had been uttered, Arnold quickly shoved the plastic bag—and whatever content it held into his grandfather's hands. Then he made a grab for Helga's wrist and pulled her along until she finally found herself sitting on the couch in the room she knew too well.

She found it awkward just sitting on the modernized couch as she realized that Arnold was briefly telling her about his room as if she had never been in it before. It was too ironic and she almost snorted.

"Do you want a blanket?" Arnold asked. "It gets pretty cold up here."

"Sure," Helga said casually as she watched him rummaged in his closet.

Arnold came and sat down next to her and spread out the blanket over both their knees. Silence once again crept its way between them. Helga bit her lower lip and hesitated before she spoke.

"Thanks, Arnold," she said, almost awkwardly.

"It's nothing," he replied. "But… you're acting strange tonight."

"What're you trying to get at, Arnold-o?" Helga snapped.

"That's more like you," Arnold said with a smirk.

"Huh?"

"You're usually not like this, calm, normal, nice." He seemed to have added the last bit more slowly, as if gambling whether or not it was safe to do so.

Helga scoffed, "I think this stupid whether is just getting to my head. Don't get used to it bucko."

"It's okay," Arnold said. He, too, was rather calm, she noted. "Even if it's for a little while."

"_You're_ the weird one here, Hair-boy," Helga said. She eyed him with one eyebrow raised in inquiry. "And it's creeping me out."

Arnold only chuckled lightly at her comment.

"What's so funny?" she growled at him dangerously.

"Nothing," he said, with his hand up. There was that look again… "Say, Helga, do you remember that time, you were the 'It Girl'?"

Now he had done it. Helga clenched her hand into a fist and held it up to his nose.

"Don't even _remind_ me of that!"

"Hey, hey! I only wanted to ask you if you remember what I said that night."

She softened her eyes somewhat but continued to hold her fist up at his face, just in case he would say something stupid. It would be faster that way.

"I forget," she answered him. A lie. She remembered that night perfectly.

"Well," Arnold began, "I said that I liked it when you acted nicer."

She suddenly felt warm fingers graced her fist and instantly, her hand was a fist no longer. Even though it was her hand that he was holding in his, it felt like her heart was the thing he was holding on to. Helga found it hard to breath.

"Just like a moment ago," he continued. "I liked you, just now."

Helga tried to speak but anything that she tried to do was cut off short. Arnold gave a gentle but firm tug on her hand, guiding her body to lean forward towards his with his other hand on her shoulder. He released her hand at last only to let his arms encircle her, embrace her with all the warmth and sincerity that a young, nine-year-old boy could offer.

"A-Arnold!" Helga gasped in alarm.

"You like me," Arnold said, more of a statement than an actual question. "Don't you, Helga?"

_Criminy! I want to cry. _

_It's beautiful and all I ever wanted and I want to cry. _

_I'm such an idiot! _

_I'm the worst idiot in the world._

"Please tell me," Arnold pleaded softly into her ear.

His hot breath alone was enough to make her mind go blank, chills were running up _and_ down her spine. Helga didn't know why she was questioning the validity of the moment. She could feel his soft touch. She could smell his clean scent. She could even swear that she could hear his heartbeats next to her ear.

And when Arnold brushed his lips on her cheek, Helga melted.

Her arms wrapped themselves around his neck as she leaned deeper into his hold. She buried her face into the crook of his neck and nodded.

"I've always liked you, Arnold," she whispered. It was enough for him to hear, she knew. "Ever since I met you. It's just been hard… to tell you the truth. I'm sorry. I've been masking it with hate." She almost laughed at the last part but held it in.

"But why?" Arnold asked. He began undoing her pink ribbon and the scrunchies that held her signature pigtails. Her locks of golden hair spilled over her shoulders and back.

"I was… afraid. I couldn't live with myself if anyone knew. The embarrassment. Arnold, I'm sorry."

_Why is it that I can only tell you everything that I want to tell you when I'm dreaming? _

_It's not enough. _

_I want to tell you in person, in the flesh and blood. _

_I want to see your real face when I'm speaking my heart to you. _

_But I know that I just can't._

"Helga…" Arnold soothed. "Helga."

His voice slowly began to distant and she started to panic. No. It can't end here. It just couldn't stop here, not when she was so close. But she knew, someone was calling her from the other side. A new day was about to start.

"Helga. Helga!"

When she finally opened her eyes, she was lying in bed, cold and sweating from head to foot. This was it, the memory that preceded the other. Her vision was blurred and she had to blink a couple of times before she was finally about to focus on Phoebe's worried stricken face.

"Phoebe…" Helga said. Her voice was groggily from the lack of use.

"Are you alright?" her best friend and roommate asked. "It's already eight in the morning."

Helga groaned and sat up on her bed. She rubbed the sides of her forehead with her fingers in circular motions to reveal the pounding pains.

"I over slept again," Helga said.

"You were saying his name again, too," Phoebe said, concern never leaving her face.

"I'm sorry, Phoebs." The blond shook her head, as if disbelieving herself that the scenario had played out before them. She brought her knees up to her chest while still under the covers and wrapped her arms around her legs in an almost defensive position.

"There's nothing to be sorry about," Phoebe soothed and patted her arm gently. She gave her friend a warm smile before getting up off her friend's bed. "It's already been two years."

"Two years," Helga repeated. She sighed inwardly and nodded to herself.

"Hm… Helga," Phoebe murmured. "We should get ready. Class is going to start soon."

The blond swung her legs over her bed, got up, and padded out of their shared room and towards the bathroom of the dorm that they shared.

"Do you want me to wake you up tomorrow?" Phoebe asked as she followed her.

"No thanks, Phoebs," Helga said when she stopped and looked back at her friend. "Tomorrow I'll get up early."

* * *

Winter in Hillwood was always cold. Gerald shivered a little, even under his heavy jacket, scarf and beanie. Phoebe's fingers intertwined in his felt like the only remote form of warmth that he could find at the moment. As his body was freezing, his heart was felt no different, numb and cold.

"I don't get it," Gerald said to Phoebe. "She could have told him all this time, but she waited until now… and it's too late."

Phoebe gave his hand a squeeze and leaned her head on his shoulder.

"It's difficult for her," Phoebe explained. "I guess, the dead are easier to confront than the living."

"Yeah but," Gerald sighed. "Now, each of them is the lover who never was."

He felt Phoebe's shoulders shuddering next to him and he knew it wasn't from the cold at that moment. He heard her sniffles and wrapped his arm around her gently. Gerald, too, was fighting back the teasing tears that were stinging his eyes. The two years he had lived without his best friend by his side had been the most painful years he had to live through yet.

When Phoebe's cries became sobs, Gerald couldn't hold back any longer. He allowed himself to relieve the lump in his throat and cried with her.

* * *

Twelve beautiful red roses wrapped with decorative paper were laying at his grave.

Helga traced a pale finger across the cold, metallic embossment of his name.

"I'm sorry," was the first thing that came from her lips. She didn't even know what she was sorry for but she thought it was appropriate. Maybe it was for all the years that she had teased him, for all the times she had embarrassed him before the entire school, for everything that she had been through with him, for every bad memory that they share. Maybe it was for never telling him that she loved him until it was too late.

She pulled out a small piece of paper and tucked it into the wrappings of the bouquet that she had brought him. It was another poem that she had written about him, from their juvenile years. She clenched her fist in frustration with herself, mentally beating herself for only being able to show him so much love after he was gone.

This love was painful.

She knew what her friends were thinking. Helga G. Pataki had always been Arnold's tormentor but for some reason unbeknownst to them until two years prior, it had all been a well played out performance. Now that he had passed, Helga was giving to him her heart. They questioned, was it really that hard to just let him know? They couldn't be angry with her, though, because it was even hard for them to watch her, whenever the day came. Helga was the one who came the earliest, who brought the freshest flowers, who stayed the closest to his grave, who left the latest, who cried the hardest.

At nineteen years of age, Helga had been told that she had her whole life ahead of her. But what was there to be optimistic about when _her _whole life could never come back to the living world?

That was when the tears came.

As the morning slipped into the afternoon, Helga stayed by his side, her body chilled and her heart almost frozen. With the salty tears that stained her cheeks, she begged all the celestial beings known to man for the chance to see his face one last time. She pleaded for the second chance to fall back in time and make her dream a reality, the second chance that could never be, not anymore.

Helga cried even harder, so much so that she felt hiccups in her throat. Because, she knew that life was going to move on, whether she was ready for it to do so or not. Regardless, Helga knew that every year, on this exact day, she would come back to tell him the words that she had held back all her life.

"I love you, Arnold," Helga whispered through her tears.

Every barrier, offensive or defensive, was broken, dissolved into nothingness as Helga poured out her regrets and her heart for the boy she loved the most—loves the most.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

This story actually came out a lot longer than expected. I hope you'll enjoy it, though. Please leave reviews about anything, suggestions, critiques, and comments are all welcomed. The idea was very much inspired by some classical music.

I really tried to capture Helga's softer interior in this one. The italics are meant to be her thoughts, not poem verses.


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